Scars of Pleasure, Scars of Pain
by EmberFalcon
Summary: When Mahariel catches Alistair in a...compromising position, he fears that she will abhor him for what he does. LEMON!


Warning: this is my first lemon. Considering my complete LACK of experience with this…apologies if anything is wrong about the whole…process. This is also my first Dragon Age: Origins fic! A lot of firsts in this one…anyway, Bioware owns the game and Alistair. I just own this story.

Well, _this_ was quickly becoming a problem.

Granted, Alistair never once complained about having to travel with a beautifully ravishing fellow Grey Warden, but it did have its…_downsides_. Honestly, this was _entirely_ her fault- she didn't have to go and make him fall in love with her! If he hadn't, this problem would have never risen…in more than one sense of the word…he groaned and drew a heavy arm over his eyes in exasperation, shielding his eyes from the dim light of his small lantern. In the last few months, as his relationship with Anyalla grew to heights he had never before experienced (she hadn't either, which was a sort of relief, really) he began to have…_trouble_ sleeping alone.

Waking up with an erection was nothing new- he'd been experiencing it since he had hit puberty. Now trying to get to sleep with one? Now that was a completely different story. Though, he amended- really all their relationship had gone to was heated kisses, cuddling, and there were a few (rather nice) moments of heavy petting, but that was honestly all they had been privy to; nights in a camp with seven other people (and Beowulf, Anyalla's Mabari) didn't leave very much room for anything else.

Not that that particular bit of information was helping him now.

He really shouldn't be this frustrated; after all, wasn't _he_ the one that turned her down when she offered? Wasn't _he_ the one that had asked to wait? _Be careful what you wish for, Alistair._ His mind mocked him so. _Now look at the mess you're in_. He hadn't begun to have this issue until the last week or so; they would kiss goodnight, as usual, but lately they both had begun to incorporate…_petting_…into their goodnight kisses.

Again, this was Anyalla's fault, really.

She had, after all, started this little war of teasing before bed. About a week ago, he had kissed her goodnight. She wasn't content to leave it at that, it seemed, for she slid her hand under his shirt to rest it upon his chest. Not that bad, really; it was enjoyable…but then she began to gently rake her nails down his chest, his abs, and stop just shy of hooking his pants. The kiss had ended with him panting wildly, and his beloved Dalish elf waltzing to her tent with a seductive smirk. He growled at the memory as his erection throbbed painfully. Damn those swaying hips of hers!

Still, he had to deal with this somehow.

He knew he could just take care of it how most men do by relieving themselves, but curse his Chantry upbringing for permanently ingraining it in his head that that sort of thing was sinful! Whenever he tried to do that, he could practically feel his knuckles throb at the memory of the old Sister rapping them with her cane.

So he did what he and the other Chantry boys had always done.

Biting his lip, he took both hands and plunged his nails into the flesh on both sides of his pelvis. After all, the only two ways he really knew how to deal with this were pleasure and pain. Since he could not give himself pleasure, he could at least punish himself for not taking Anyalla up on the offer to spend the night in her tent those two weeks ago. He hissed in pain as he dragged his nails roughly across his pelvic bones. He gave a mental sigh of relief when he felt the throbbing heat in his loins beginning to quiet. _Good, now all I have to do is keep quiet and-_

He hadn't anticipated there being scabs.

Moreover, he didn't expect it to hurt so badly when his nail snagged one and ripped it open. The cry of pain he gave off was horrifyingly loud, so much so that he faintly heard a rustle from outside his tent. To try to cover up what he had done (and save himself a little dignity) he scrambled for the blankets, desperately trying to cover himself before anyone barged in here to see what the commotion was about.

"Alistair, what-?" Oh Maker, take him now! There he was, stark naked, frozen in mid grab for his blanket as Anyalla Mahariel, the woman of his dreams and the only one he could ever love, stood halfway in his tent, in little more than a baggy shirt and pants. They stayed there frozen for a few moments more until she knelt before him and finally broke the silence. "What happened…?" She asked gently, fear still evident in her otherwise warm amber eyes as she reached for his blanket. Panic stricken, Alistair tried to play off whatever it was that had her so worried.

"Ah, nothing really! Just trying to get a few winks of sleep! It was…uh…the nightmares! Yes, the nightmares! Nothing to worry about-"

"Alistair, you're _bleeding_!" She emphasized by tugging on the blanket more. He blinked in surprise. Sure enough, there was a sizeable blood splotch on his blanket, about the size of Beowulf's paw. "Please," she begged, taking up the blanket in her hand once more. "Let me try to help- I have some elfroot in my tent-!" No, no he couldn't let her see it; she would laugh at him for not being a man, think he preferred to hurt himself than lie with her and that _so_ wasn't the case.

He would not lose her to such a stupid thing.

"Anyalla, please," it was now his turn to beg as he sat up, tugging the blanket with him a bit. "It's nothing…I don't want you to see-"

"Maker's breath, Alistair I know we're both inexperienced, but this is hardly the time when you have a wound that needs treating-!" Before he could get a firm enough grip on the blanket, she tugged it away, revealing exactly what he was terrified of her seeing. There they were: he never realized that quite a few of the scratches had scarred, leaving weeks of self-torment laid out right before her eyes. _Maker…_ he felt his heart drop from his chest. He bowed his head, afraid to look her in the eyes and see what he suspected was already there: disgust. _She'll be repulsed by me now…she'll think I'm some sort of masochist…or, or-_

"Why…?" He heard her breathe, though he did not lift his head.

"We were taught in the Chantry that we could not pleasure ourselves," when did his tone become so distant, detached? Perhaps he was already anticipating her ending the relationship, he wasn't entirely sure. "So we would do this to ourselves. I guess I couldn't beat that particular lesson out of my head…err…no pun intended." His attempt at humor seemed to fall on deaf ears as he heard her stand.

"Stay here- I'll be right back," he voice had grown soft once more as she left the tent. As her footsteps faded, anxiety built within his chest. Did she hate what he had done? Did she take it as an insult? Does she never want to be with him in any sense of the word now? His questions would soon be answered: she was reentering the tent, a warm blanket and a phial of some sort in her hands.

"I made an elfroot poultice, and I figured you could use my blanket tonight until I wash this bloodied one in the morning," she knelt beside him this time, taking his blanket and discarding it off elsewhere in his tent- he wasn't looking. Guilt ate at him- Maker, does this woman ever think of herself?

"What about you?" He blurted, earning a pause and a raised eyebrow from the Dalish warrior. "Won't you be cold, I mean," he hastily elaborated, lest she think worse of him for it. Mayhap he imagined it, but he could have sworn he just saw a mischievous glint flicker in her amber eyes. It must have just been from his lantern…yes, that must have been it.

"Don't worry about me, Alistair," was all she said as she unscrewed the cork off the phial. Now that it was in the light, he could see the green of the crushed elfroot, now a paste, inside. She poured the contents into the palm of her hand, all the while not meeting Alistair's eyes. A light blush dusted her cheeks as she leaned over to inspect the wound. Alistair observed her, watched at her deep chestnut hair tumbled over her shoulder, nearly to her hips, her eyes trained on the wound with such concentration he vaguely wondered if she herself had any Templar training, and those deliciously kissable rose petal lips of hers…

He hissed mainly out of surprise when she applied to cool paste to his marred skin, smoothing it over the wounds. Although the blush on her cheeks intensified, she continued until the elfroot had completely been absorbed in his skin, and the offending wounds had closed themselves. As she cleaned her hands, he waited, unsure of what to say. Finally, she turned to him, her expression unreadable to him. "How long?" She asked, gesturing to his manhood.

"Err…sorry…?" He had thought she'd gotten a good enough visual.

"How long have you been doing that to yourself?"

"…About two weeks…"

"Every night?"

"…Yes…" Yep. That was it. The final nail in the coffin. She was surely disgusted with him now. He hadn't anticipated her taking his face in her hand to guide his gaze to meet hers, brushing her thumb over his face as she stared intently into his deep brown eyes. "Anyalla, I-"

"Shh…" she placed a finger to his lips to silence him. "You don't have to do that to yourself ever again…" She removed her hand from his lips and rested it lightly on his, guiding it to her breast- and when did she open the laces on the top of her shirt…? And why wasn't she wearing any smallclothes…? "I am willing…" she brushed her lips over his lightly. "…If you will have me." He did not respond, he could not respond. Nor could she continue, really. Alistair had made that difficult when he had crushed his mouth to hers, after all. The arm that wasn't occupied with her breast wound itself around her waist and clutched her tightly against him. She responded eagerly, gently pushing him backward toward his laid out sleeping mat (not that he needed much coaxing, really) and now that there was no time constraint to their moment of intimacy, he allowed his hands to slowly wander her curves, her breasts, her toned legs until she broke the kiss as she sat up in his lap, unknowingly (or perhaps knowingly. He wouldn't be terribly surprised with his little minx) placing her heat just above his manhood, teasing it to come up to meet her. He drank in the sight of her, shirt undone, hair tousled, sexy smirk on those kiss-swollen lips, and that devious glint in her eyes. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life, and he made a silent prayer to the Maker in the back of his mind that this wonderful woman be his for the rest of his days, no matter what he had to sacrifice. "I think…" she began, wiggling her hips just enough to elicit a pleading moan from his lips. "…That I am entirely too overdressed for this occasion, don't you…?" She gasped as he suddenly flipped them so she was lying flat on her back with him hovering over her, hands on either side of her head.

"I couldn't agree more," he smirked wickedly at her before he helped her hastily remove her shirt and kick off her pants. Then his eyes at last beheld her completely exposed: his eyes roamed over her gentle collar bone, down the valley of her breasts, past her taut belly, down to a small tuft of curls that rested between two well sculpted thighs. He felt the liquid fire shoot straight to his loins and he growled deep in his chest in pleasure as she began to do a little exploring of her own. She took his silence as repulsion, and she began to cover herself with her arms. She was stunned when Alistair's hands reached out and grabbed her arms. "Wait... don't. I want to see you. I've dreamed about you for so long, I..." His words faded into the ether when her hands wandered down his neck, his chest, nails lightly dragging until they reached his abs, where her touches became feather light, teasingly so. So much so that he began to whimper in need as she allowed her graceful fingers to dance lower still, until she was lightly brushing her fingers down the length of his shaft. The throbbing and the aching _need_ became so intense, he begged, "Don't tease…!" She smirked in response.

"As you wish," she flipped them over, and slipped out of his eyesight.

"What are you- ah!" He threw his head back in pleasure as her tongue swept slowly over his length. He arched his back, hands clutching at his sleeping mat, eyes screwing shut at waves of pleasure he had never felt before washed over him. But then suddenly there was a white light under his heavy lids, and all his muscles tensed.

Moments later, he remembered to breathe again. He opened his eyes to see what had caused his momentary loss of sanity. "I…oh, Maker…" he panted, his head lolling back against his pillow. She slid up his body, her fingers dancing intricately along his sides as she rose to level with him, that frustratingly sexy smirk never quite leaving her lips. When the power of speech returned to him, he breathed, "Darling…I can't take it…" his lips found hers, though the urgency in his kiss made his words clear. They swapped positions, still kissing as he straddled her. Their lips parted, and he rested his forehead against hers. "I _need_ you," he searched her eyes for any sign of hesitation, any regret, anything that might indicate she was having second thoughts about this.

There were none.

"Then take me," was her only breathy response, all she could give before Alistair reconnected his lips to hers. He positioned himself for the task at hand…and dove. Her cry of pain and pleasure alarmed him, and he nearly backed away, if it weren't for her hands firmly holding his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh, insisting that he stay there. So he, unsure of what to do and so very, _very_ lost to the pleasure consuming him, stayed where he was, peppering blind kisses into her hair and on her forehead, murmuring soothing words of endearment and comfort into her thick tresses as he ran a shaky hand through them. Anyalla, for her part, simply needed a few moments to adjust to no longer being a virgin and grow accustomed to his size. Once the pain faded, there was only endless pleasure. To show him that she was ready, for words had escaped her at that point, she lifted her hips to meet his, and had leaned close to begin to lick and nip his neck.

That was the point of no return for both of them.

Alistair began to increase his speed, thrusting in and out of her, relishing in her moans and cries, the way her nails dragged across his flesh, surely leaving welts and marks for days, perhaps even a few open wounds that would never fade, but he did not care: these were scars of ecstasy, not those of pain. In the throes of their lovemaking, she murmured his name, ragged and soft, but it was there, and it sent him over the edge. He clutched her tighter and with one final thrust, they both climaxed. Clearly taxed, he slid gently out of her and settled beside her, pulling her blanket over both of them. He held her close, and as much as he was enjoying this, he could not, _would not_ close his eyes for this- he needed to see her, to know what she was feeling. He was not disappointed: her eyes, glazed over and smoky with pleasure as they were, found him amidst the fog of her hazy sight and opened up to him, at long last showing the gentle woman that was hidden under her training as a warrior, revealing that soft spoken, kind hearted woman that loved him endlessly regardless of the Blight, of any threat that might come their way. In that moment, that one glorious moment, there was no Templar, no Dalish elf, no death or destruction or Ostagar or damned Archdemon: in the darkness of his tent, save for one tiny little lamp light, there was only Alistair and Anyalla, not as Grey Wardens, not even as human and elf, but as eternal lovers.

She nuzzled her face within the crook of his neck, kissing the sweaty flesh she found there. His arms did not hesitate to find their way around her, one around her lithe waist, the other's hand tangling itself within her tousled locks. He continued to plant kisses into her scalp, on her forehead, and nuzzle her hair. He drank in her scent, musky with both her desire and his, and cherished this rarest of moments. "I love you," she whispered against his neck, kissing and licking her way up to his lips, where he indulged her leisurely. Truly, his heart sang. Granted, it had been an unspoken understanding between them, but to hear her say those words so sweetly warmed his heart.

"And I love you," he replied, kissing her softly again. "Always."


End file.
